


All that I can see is my future in your hands

by yourbuttervoicedbeau (kiwiana)



Series: Songs from the Jukebox [Prompt Fills] [52]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Age trolling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced spanking, M/M, Memories, POV David Rose, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau
Summary: He does think about Patrick’s offer to help look but Sunday is the only day they have off together, and there are a dozen better ways David can think to spend it that don’t involve rattling around a dusty garage, so he changes into a pair of Patrick’s jeans and throws an old t-shirt on before heading out there.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Songs from the Jukebox [Prompt Fills] [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775569
Comments: 43
Kudos: 227





	All that I can see is my future in your hands

**Author's Note:**

> I totally misread an anon Tumblr prompt and wrote... basically the opposite of what they asked for. So y’all just get this little slice of post-canon for fun, I guess 😅
> 
> Title is from Matt Nathanson.

David is a man on a mission.

“I think the menorah is tucked away in the garage storage,” he says, hovering in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen where Patrick is finishing the last of the dishes. “I’m going to go take a look.”

“Now?” Patrick turns to him with a flicker of a frown. “Are you sure you should be digging through all those boxes in the dark?” The frown flips, a teasing grin taking over his face. “After all, you are nearly fifty. Are you sure it’s not too much for you?”

“I am not  _ nearly fifty,”  _ David hisses, outraged. Forty-seven is nowhere near fifty, thank you very much, and he’s got two and a half years before he even has to think about that word.

“Mm, I wouldn’t know,” Patrick smirks. “I’m barely into my forties at all, really, so I’m a long way away from—” 

“Okay, that’s quite enough out of you,” David says firmly. “I’m not so ancient that I can’t still take you over my knee.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that, David,” Patrick replies, his voice low and throaty, and David swallows hard. They’ve been married over a decade; he should be immune to that tone by now, and yet it still absolutely does it for him. Patrick throws the tea towel onto the counter before walking over to where David’s standing, wrapping his arms around David’s waist. “I’ll help you go through the boxes in the garage on Sunday, if you like,” he says before tugging David into a kiss that makes him forget what he was planning to look for in the first place.

It’s not until late the next afternoon that he remembers; he’s home on his own as it’s his day off, and Patrick is spending the day at their Elm Lake location so he can’t even swing by the store with some flimsy pretext to bring his husband tea. He does think about Patrick’s offer to help look through the boxes but Sunday is the only day they have off together, and there are a dozen better ways David can think to spend it that don’t involve rattling around a dusty garage, so he changes into a pair of Patrick’s jeans and throws an old t-shirt on before heading out there.

It’s astounding how much  _ stuff _ they’ve managed to accumulate over the years, and David grumbles as he starts methodically looking through boxes, setting them aside when they fail to produce anything useful. He’s lost track of how long he’s been looking when he tugs the lid off yet another box only to inhale sharply when he catches sight of the fabric resting on top, the orange flames popping sharply against the black even after all these years. 

He lifts the sweater carefully out of the box, confused. He thought he’d thrown this out… three years ago, maybe four? He’d worn it on a vendor visit and had somehow snagged himself on a nail sticking out of their fence; it had torn right through the sweater, not along a seam where it might have been able to be repaired but across the back, and he’d very reluctantly accepted that it was time to say goodbye. 

He has no idea how it didn’t wind up in the garbage, and he holds the sweater in one hand as he turns his attention back to the box. There are the recipe books Marcy sent them when the Brewers decided to downsize from Patrick’s childhood home, the recipes themselves long since digitised; what looks like an old Blue Jays jersey, though David still pretends not to recognise the uniform; a stack of yearbooks from Patrick’s school. 

How did a fifteen-year-old torn Givenchy sweater find its way into this collection of memories?

“David, are you in…” Patrick’s voice trails off from the doorway, and when David turns as easily as he can while he’s on his knees he sees his husband’s eyes locked on the sweater still clutched in David’s hand, cheeks turning pink. It’s been a long time since he made Patrick blush and he can feel the grin stretching across his face unchecked. 

“You know, I could have sworn I threw this out,” he says lightly, and Patrick’s flush deepens even as he attempts a nonchalant shrug. 

“I’m quite fond of that sweater, actually,” he says. “It seemed a shame to get rid of it.”

“I knew I’d make a fashion aficionado out of you eventually.”

“Mm, that must be it,” Patrick says as he strides across the floor, kneeling down next to David and taking David’s face in his hands. “Definitely unrelated to the first time I saw you wearing it.” He leans in, his eyes locked on David’s lips until just before they connect in a kiss at once achingly familiar and deeply sensual, a kiss that doesn’t last anywhere as long as David wants it to before Patrick is pulling back slightly. 

“Nothing to do with the way you looked at me while I sang to you in front of everyone,” he murmurs, breath ghosting along David’s lips before they find themselves occupied again. “Or the way you thanked me in the stockroom afterwards for my very nice performance.” Another kiss. 

“It  _ was _ a very nice performance,” David whispers as Patrick presses him gently backwards, peppering kisses along his jaw and down his throat until David is stretched out on the ground. And David really wants to pull Patrick closer, get his hands all over him, but he knows he’s going to regret the location if this goes much further. 

“Mmkay, no, I’m not fucking you on a dirty concrete floor,” David grumbles, and he feels Patrick chuckle against his neck before he pulls away and stands up, holding out a hand to haul David to his feet. 

“Guess we’ll have to go inside then, won’t we?” Patrick says with a smirk. “The mattress is probably easier on your old bones anyway.”

David scowls, but lets himself be led out of the garage and all the way through the house to their bedroom where he proceeds to show Patrick just how much energy his  _ old bones _ can muster. 

It’s only much, much later that he realises he still didn’t find the fucking menorah. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Come and find me on [Tumblr](http://yourbuttervoicedbeau.tumblr.com/).


End file.
